What Happens Next
by Helen8462
Summary: What happens next is that he loves her. Beyond that, he can't be sure. (This is a sequel to the other stories in the Counterpoint Vignettes collection available on AO3. You should read them first. 15 years post-Kashyk.) [J/C]


_**A/N:** This is a direct sequel to 'He'd pity you' [by Caladena / OPYKJ] and 'Clarity' [by MiaCooper] (but it includes references to all of the other stories) in the Counterpoint Vignettes collection. You should read them first or this won't make a whole lot of sense. Some of the stories are rated 'Explicit" and are therefore only stored on AO3. To find them, go to the website "archive of our own" collections/Counterpoint. Or message me and I can lead you there. _

_This is the next, but likely-not-last piece in an intricate puzzle which some very talented ladies have worked together. The series they have created is no less than J/C angst perfected. I am humbled to have been asked to contribute._

 _Previous works in suggested reading order: Acceptance, Denial, Clarity [Mia Cooper]; The Seventh Bar [Little Obsessions], The Second Circle [Mia Cooper], 'He'd pity you' [Caladenia], This Monstrous Feeling [Little Obsessions]_

 _A million thanks to Mia Cooper for her beta skills, advice and patience. And also to Caladenia for the nudge._

 _ **Warning** : This does contain sexual content and refers to previous non-con situations, though it is not terribly explicit._

* * *

It glints gold.

Lying in a bowl on the nightstand, it taunts him.

This isn't the first time she's left it behind. In fact, she usually prefers to keep evidence of their relationship behind closed doors. Her need for privacy has never really bothered him, until now.

This time though - this time is different. Whether either of them fully realize to what extent, he can't be sure. But he does know that if there was ever a time to have the one conversation they have been avoiding, this is it.

Addressing the subject of Cardassian rapists and lecherous recordings and years-worth of questionable choices for a second time should be easier, he thinks, despite his wife never having felt the need to do so. But it took the better part of a decade to repress what was said on that now-retired ship to a different Admiral Kathryn Janeway. He is not eager to bring ancient history to the forefront again, and he's not sure that she needs the enormity of such a distraction right now.

As he dresses for the formalities of the evening, his attention continues to wander back to where the ring sits. He had hoped – just this one time – that she would have chosen to keep it on.

Like a magnet he finds himself drawn to the metal. Before he can understand how, the shining band is in his palm. It is cold at first touch but warms quickly - delicate in his hand, but heavy on his mind. If ever there was a metaphor for the woman he married….

The ring slides down his flesh and now abuts his own. For twelve years they have worn these matching representations of love and devotion - twelve equally hard and wonderful years.

His eyes focus on the pieces of jewelry and for a moment he sees his image in their shiny surfaces. There are no markings engraved to distort the reflection. No platitudes or even an anniversary were etched. Because no amount of words could ever convey enough of what they have been through together. No one, single date defines it all.

Without warning, memories accost him as if this object has some magical power to replay the past. He is suddenly a thousand places all at once. And all of them with her.

He lives again through the six months when they were only for each other after returning to Earth. He recalls the trips they took to Lake George and the Grand Canyon; the Gulf of Mexico, London, the Greek Isles and a dozen other places. He smiles remembering the days spent on sandy beaches, long hikes and in quaint cafes; he becomes aroused while envisioning their nights spent wrestling through the calm and fury of soul conquering passion.

Those trips were more than just a way to escape and enjoy. They were a promise kept – and where they had learned what it was to be only for each other.

Their relationship grew past the confines of bulkheads and orders and parameters. It flourished in the freedom of open air. But like all good things, those moments couldn't be extended to last forever.

The sorrow in her eyes while he packed to return to duty haunts him still. They had made love that night as if it were going to be the last time.

He was gone for eighty-seven days and it felt longer than a lifetime. The afternoon that he returned, she put on the ring.

He stayed in Starfleet only because of the offer to keep them together. She stayed because she never was truly happy sitting still.

It was good in theory, never being far apart. But their adventures wouldn't turn out to always be pleasant. Wars and battles fought both against alien predators and against each other tested their limits. Her tendency to pull away from him during the hard times was difficult to accept. And then there were the moments that he worried love might not be enough.

Times that they were injured or sick. Hallucinating. Missing in action. He pushes those memories away.

The most recent years have been good to him. He has enjoyed the quiet peace of a small fleet and returning to the places where their relationship had first been forged – for these things he is grateful. He is beginning to feel age in his bones and the natural decline of his once adventurous spirit. The newly christened vessel under his feet feels almost too new and eager for him, but it won't be an issue much longer. This mission is to be their last. The honor of this command and the signing of a final, important treaty was meant as a parting gift.

Their teaching positions have been secured. A house by a lake, in the beautiful middle of nowhere, lies in wait.

He thinks it cruel that fate would grow one last thorn onto his rose.

Back in the present, his vision clears and he refocuses on the jewelry. The fact that it is in his hand instead of on her finger feels like a warning.

In a way, he's always known it could come down to this - him or the uniform. After all, that is how their relationship started. He's been winning the battle for so long now, he almost forgot there was another competitor for her love. She is not likely to accept failure in her last mission, not out here. And he is uncertain as to what exactly it will cost them for her to succeed. He is ashamed by the wavering of his trust, but he has his reasons.

They have been in Devore territory for six days now. As if the space between the stars here was poisoned, he feels ill simply by existing in it. If she feels the same way, she's hiding it well and she's doing little to help him feel better.

They haven't spoken of the other man, at least, not in words. But in her refueled sexual appetite Chakotay feels the perpetrator in their bed. Each night since they crossed the border her demands on him have become more impatient. More detached. Obvious.

Three nights ago she used him with such reckless abandon that he found it hard to walk in the morning.

Last night she had spewed forth a once-practiced "fuck me." He almost couldn't bear to finish for recalling her on hands and knees, demanding the same thing of the other man.

At one time he might not have minded so much. But under the circumstances he feels as if she is preparing for something.

He hears the door swish open and hastily drops her wedding band back into the small bowl with a clink. Afraid it might bounce out, he puts a hand over top but miscalculates and the vessel tips - the ring rolls onto the floor, under the bed. Her footsteps are drawing closer, there's no time to retrieve it.

"Are you coming?" she asks him, but her voice is not impatient.

He nods and requests, "Help me with this?" as he pulls up the top lapel on his dress uniform. She smiles and moves closer. She looks beautiful, he thinks, clothed in formality and with dappled-grey hair.

"All these years and you still haven't figured out how to put this on?" she teases. "What did you used to do before I was here to help button you up?"

"I got by," he says but the words come out choked - his mouth is uncomfortably dry. Her lips are close now, her breath raspy and hot as he feels her fingertips continue to work the clasp on his shoulder.

Her eyes meet his, but in an instant they blink away.

"We're going to be late," she chides him softly. Then she rests a hand on his shoulder, it slides to a familiar place on his chest. Her touch is meant as a gesture of comfort. She's trying to impart sameness, order, reassurance. Her eyes dart to the nightstand and he knows that she sees the bowl has been overturned. But she says nothing.

He escorts her down the hallway and can't shake the feeling that he is a dead man walking.

* * *

The pair are lead into an ornate, imposing building by a liaison with whom they have been conversing for the last week. She goes by the name of Kiara and he feels it suits her well. She is a tall, confident woman with kind eyes.

They are the last group in a trail of other alien dignitaries, though none have travelled as far as they have for the occasion. The treaty is all but signed for most; this reception is a formality, a reward. But if the Federation's portion of the accord were so easy to approve he muses that they might not have had to attend tonight. A few key points remain under dispute, to be negotiated upon with a yet-to-be-named, high ranking ambassador. The pessimist in him wonders if there are ulterior reasons as to why.

Their escort motions them ahead.

He suddenly feels as if it is twenty-odd years ago and he is on a Cardassian-claimed battlefield. His eyes dart, his pulse quickens. He is hot and anxious. At the shape of a familiar face, he stumbles. Of course, it would be this man. Fate wouldn't be so careless as to leave the job to anyone else.

Chakotay looks to his left and sees through Kathryn, under her mask, in the way he believes only he can. She isn't surprised in the same way he is. She knew this man would be here. She must have asked ahead, found out somehow. In that moment he hopes only that she didn't specifically request him. His fears are surfacing.

She was preparing.

"Admiral Janeway, Captain Chakotay, I am Ambassador Kashyk. Welcome to the Devore Republic."

The voice hits his ears like a dirty punch in a losing match.

She extends her hand first. "Ambassador, it is so good to see you again after all of these years," she says with a smile that looks a little too honest. The alien's long, lean fingers make Chakotay's stomach retch as they curl around her pale skin. Kashyk's gaze drops lower than is appropriate and he bows slightly to kiss the top of her hand. Everything about this moment assaults her husband's senses.

To anyone else in the foyer, all is well.

Kashyk shakes Chakotay's hand next and grips him just a little longer than is comfortable. In his crooked smile Chakotay knows the game is on. He will be forced to play once again for the sake of the Federation.

"And here, I thought we'd seen the last of each other, Commander," Kashyk says, using a subordinate title as his first move. "Oh, slip of the tongue," he shakes his head. "It's Captain now."

"Yes," Kathryn interjects. "We've all gone up the ranks it seems."

"They were hard earned promotions, I'm sure," Kashyk agrees with a slight raise of his eyebrow. Chakotay wonders if the man has been practicing phrases with double meanings. "I hear you have a new ship, Captain. Is she as capable as your first? As agile and well equipped?" And now Chakotay is sure he has been.

"La Recherche is quite capable under my command," he replies, leaning into the words.

"Good. I would have been so disappointed with anything less."

Both men can feel from Kathryn's demeanor that she has no further interest in this vague semblance of a pissing match. Thankfully, neither does the liaison who seems concerned with their schedule.

Kiara motions to the ballroom with an urgency that suggests they are running behind. Some seventy-odd mingling attendees are called to order quickly and find their assigned seats. The Federation group, with Kashyk's hand imposing on the small of Kathryn's back, take to an assigned table in the rear corner – conveniently away from prying eyes.

Chakotay's first instinct is to pull out his wife's chair in some vain attempt at possession, but he is beaten to the punch. She is sitting to the far side of Kashyk now, much too distant for his taste. He recovers and instead retrieves the chair for Kiara, as is proper.

A rather chubby emcee takes to the dais and the chatter dies away. "Friends, neighbors, visitors from across the galaxy. We welcome you to the Devore Republic. In two hours, the teams will adjourn to their individual negotiations and signing ceremonies, but until then, let us feast and dance and become of one mind so that later we may become of one, unified spirit."

Applause fills the room and its thundering, partnered with Kashyk's horrible face, brings to the forefront of Chakotay's mind the percussion of bodies slamming together to accosting music. He would excuse himself for air but would rather die than willingly leave them alone.

Kathryn leans into the ambassador a bit and holds a light conversation to which the captain is not privy, and so instead he makes distracted small talk with Kiara. From the corner of his eye, he notices every single time his wife laughs and smiles and oh God that bastard just put his hand on her arm. After a few moments a waiter brings their plates of food. He suddenly worries how he will manage to consume it.

"This looks wonderful," Kathryn says with a smile.

"Be sure to eat up," Kashyk replies. And then he catches Chakotay's eye. "We have a long night ahead of us. And negotiating is such hungry work."

Chakotay is now certain he won't manage to choke down dinner.

Realizing he needs a survival technique for the meal, he focuses only on Kiara. He finds her an honestly fascinating person. Poised and well-spoken, she is a stellar choice for her job. If the situation were different he would have very much enjoyed hearing more of her experiences on the transformation of Devore.

After dinner there is to be dancing. Without a moment's notice, the women excuse themselves to freshen up before the music begins. Chakotay feels a familiar hand pass smoothly across the back of his neck before she takes her leave. An act which was watched with hawk-like eyes by the remaining person at the table.

"The admiral is looking well," Kashyk says, taking a sip from his goblet of bitter wine.

"Yes. She is very well."

"And you?" Kashyk asks, eyeing him up and down. "Have the years been good to you?"

Chakotay first makes his own assessment and finds the ex-inspector rounder in the cheeks and with lighter hair. In doing so he can't help but calculate how easy it would be to break the man's face. "They have," he replies. After a dry swallow he returns the question hoping to stall for time. "How about you, Ambassador? I do hope that your experience on Voyager didn't cost you anything."

Kashyk smiles. "On the contrary. I found my time on Voyager to be an enlightening experience. One that rarely leaves my mind." His last word has a bite to it that reverberates.

"It's good to see that the Republic is coming around to more accepting ideals," Chakotay says to steer the conversation toward diplomacy. "I hope we had something to do with that."

"Let us just say that Kathryn's efforts were not in vain." The knot in Chakotay's chest pulls tighter as Kashyk relaxes back in his chair. "I am certainly grateful for the changes. This situation has allowed me to stop travelling around so much and settle down in my second half of life. I've married…." Kashyk snaps his fingers as if remembering something. "Oh, and my wife sends her regards for this evening. She took a tumble the other day and prefers not to be seen with bruises." Seeing the realization and disgust he was hoping for in Chakotay's expression, Kashyk waves off the line of thought. "Have you considered settling down?"

Chakotay is not entirely sure where this conversation is going, but he has an inkling that the snake is fishing for information. As much as he wants to lay out and tell him exactly what has happened in the fifteen years since their first encounter, he is reminded by his own wife's desire for privacy.

"I go where duty calls," Chakotay replies curtly and takes a sip from his water.

"If you want some advice from an old friend - we are friends aren't we? – don't marry yourself to duty. You have to enjoy all of the fruits that life has to offer."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind," Chakotay says. He glances back impatiently to the hallway where the women disappeared.

"Still, duty has its place for the greater good and all that. As I was telling Kathryn, I was instrumental in turning Devore around. We can't be allowed to fall by the wayside because of our intolerance. This alliance with your Federation, and with all of the other parties here tonight, will ensure decades of peace in this section of the quadrant. An importance which I'm sure you realize."

Chakotay nods. Despite his blinding hatred, the words are actually important to remember. For better or worse, despite misgivings, this is why they are here - to effect peace. He just wishes that 'the powers that be' had chosen someone else.

"I'm sure the treaty will be signed quickly and without issue," Chakotay says. "The admiral has no desire to linger on Devore any longer than is necessary."

Kashyk pouts. "I'm sorry to hear that. I was rather hoping to entertain a while after the formalities."

Chakotay looks him square in the eye. "We both have other commitments to keep."

The ambassador shrugs. "Well then, at the very least I am looking forward to reacquainting myself with Kathryn's diplomatic skills. It's been such a long time since I've had a good negotiation." The words settle and then he says, "I do hope you will stay to observe. Or if you like, I can have a recording of the proceedings sent to you tomorrow."

Chakotay grits his teeth and can feel his clenched muscles beginning to ache throughout his body protesting the sheer amount of adrenaline to which they have been subjected. The resolve that had accompanied him this evening finally spent, he prepares to educate the man.

"There is something you need to understand, Kashyk," he seethes, leaning forward with his elbows now on the table. "If you think –"

But his words are interrupted by a hand on his shoulder once again. He closes his eyes and steadies a breath.

"Ah, my dear Admiral Kathryn," Kashyk says, rising from his seat. He dismisses the prior train of thought as if Chakotay were no longer in the room. "The music is about to begin, and I would be honored to have you on my arm for the first dance."

"It would be my pleasure," she says. "But first I need to have a word with Captain Chakotay." Kashyk bows graciously and she leads her husband away from prying eyes and ears.

"You should return to the ship," he hears her say.

His first response is disbelief.

"What?"

"This formal dance will only last about ten minutes and then we move into conference."

He composes himself. "I was under the assumption that I would be a part of that."

"I think, given the circumstances, Federation interests would best be served if I handled this alone." Her voice is diplomatic and sure. If there was to be an argument, he's already lost.

"You….you don't trust me?" he stammers, reading between her well-crafted lines.

"To be honest, no. I've seen the way you're looking at him and I know you're having trouble remaining objective."

"Can you blame me?" he asks incredulously but doesn't give her a chance to respond. "I can't believe –"

"I didn't say I blame you," she says softly, placing that gentle hand on his chest for the second time of the evening. "Chakotay, you need to return to the ship. Everything will be fine."

Her voice says the words but her eyes say something different. They say 'you don't need to see this,' and 'please don't make a scene,' and he imagines they say 'trust me,' but later he won't be sure. She is leaving him in the dark again and it hurts, but he learned decades ago not to argue with her, so against every instinct and every torn fiber of his being, he nods. She brings him back to the table and hastens the farewells.

The last thing he sees are her stoic, unreadable eyes that again refuse to meet his.

* * *

Walking back to their quarters at the beginning of ship's night, knowing they will be empty, is one of the loneliest things he has ever done.

His mind's eye is still trained on her, and because of that he can barely see three steps ahead. He sees instead the banquet hall and the labyrinth of corridors and rooms which spilled out from all sides. He sees the dispersing crowd and the shape of Kashyk's mouth as he spewed forth innuendo.

He remembers the way she looked years ago, in front of that man, taking her punishment with silent acceptance. Or was it a reward? Since they've never spoken about it, he can't be sure.

He removes his uniform and arranges it compulsively until it hangs perfect in the closet. Then, he considers a drink but realizes that he doesn't want to mask the anguish. He entertains the notion of a shower, but won't be able to stand the sight of himself. Naked, he knows he will think only of her.

Anger starts to rise within him again and he moves across their generous living space to the small room where he keeps a heavy punching bag.

He starts off slow and rhythmic. This session is similar to his morning workout except that he can't spare the time to stretch first. And he has purposefully forgone bag gloves. This way he can imagine that his knuckles are impacting Kashyk's face.

Muscle memory leads him into an optimal stride. Punch after punch lands in the target square. The heavy bag swings slightly. His pulse quickens, his breathing becomes efficient. The leather contorts and much like the reflections in her wedding band, he begins to see images within the cloth.

Right hook. Kashyk. Left jab. Kashyk. Hook. Kashyk. Jab. Kashyk. Hook. Jab. Hook. Jab.

His knuckles begin to burn and his knees are aching from the improper way his feet have been leaden on the floor. In his anger, he has forgotten good form. He sways slightly to break the stiction.

A nagging whisper reminds him that it's not just Kashyk he needs to fight but the ones who led her to that monster in the first place.

He now sees the bag as the first in a line of abusers that he wasn't there to protect her from.

Right uppercut. Cardassian. Left cross. Cardassian. Uppercut. Cardassian. Cross. Cardassian. Cut. Cross. Cut. Cross.

One by one in his mind they fall. The line is long and his palms begin to hurt where his fingernails have been digging. He switches temporarily to forearm and elbow strikes.

His aging body begins to protest about the time that he has had his fill of fighting Cardassians and Devore.

Sweat pours down from his brow and stings his eyes but he does not wipe it away. His chest aches and his lungs burn still he fights onward down the line of those who have ever caused her any kind of pain. Kazon, Vidiian, Borg, Hirogen, Ransom, Arturis…. he fights Justin and Mark for having broken her heart, Owen Paris for not keeping her safe, even her own father for being gone too often when she was a child. He fights his way through her entire life and back again until he finally sees the enemy within.

He is fighting himself.

Summoning a last morsel of strength, he prepares to lay down a blow to finally punish the person who, in turning her away, hurt her more than anyone else.

He hasn't been that person in a long time. But by way of his mistrust he feels just as guilty as the last time she ended up with Kashyk alone. Things will be different after tonight. No matter what happens, he will be there to put the pieces back together. And he will be sure that they finally have the discussion they've both been avoiding.

His final punch lands but he doesn't recoil. His tired fist sits in the leather, keeping the bag arched back. He is aware of a trickling sensation running down his wrist and expects to see blood, but instead finds coarse sand. Spilling from a worn spot where the laces are tied, it falls to coat and stick to the sweaty hair on his arm.

He retracts and slumps to the floor - watches for a moment as the sand streams out into a small pile and stops.

Hazing in and out of consciousness, he rests until his body further objects to being on the floor. There is nothing left to do but lie down. On the stumble back to the bedroom he sees the bowl, still upturned on the nightstand next to her pillow.

Despite the protest of his cracking knees, he bends to retrieve her ring. He holds the object tight in his still-aching palm and refuses to put it down. It will be safe there until she returns.

* * *

He is awoken by a feeling of warmth which begins where his right shoulder meets his neck. Trailing up the side of his chin the sensation thickens and migrates until it plunders onto his lips. The fog of sleep lifts and he breathes her in. Their kiss deepens now that he is a part of it. Hungry and pure and familiar, it feels like nirvana.

He senses her hand trace up his slightly-numb arm which lies above his head, fist still clenched around the object – she gently urges his fingers to open and takes back what is hers. She slides the ring on while her hand is still in his palm, and with the knowledge of her act, his world swings into rightness again.

In his exhausted slumber, he did not notice when she repaired the damaged flesh of his knuckles or calmed the swelling in his wrists. In his preoccupation with her return, he fails to feel that she has been working him free from his boxers.

His hands come down, no longer sore, around her naked form. She's soft still, responds under his touch with the reward of raspy breath. He reacquaints himself with the shape of her as she straddles him, the warmest parts of her thighs squeeze his waist and his body responds as it should.

He rises up to return the favor of her kiss. He revels in his Kathryn. The one he married. The one he loves.

The dance they continue is not unlike the one they had so many years ago when he first carried her, stripped bare and willing, into a different bedroom. Her hot mouth against the sensitive skin just below his ear, sucking and inhaling and savoring; his arms wrapped possessively around her, meandering to stroke her hair, her arm, her hip….

Eventually, hands find their matches and fingers intertwine. In a fluid motion that does not surprise him in the least, she sheathes him within her and holds them still for a long moment. Her forehead droops to rest against his and he can feel her begin to form words.

"My love, I –"

He silences her with a kiss and a plunge.

Then he rolls them over, owning her and she loves the way he feels. His gentle strength pins her down, pleasing her and keeping her safe in the same delicious movement.

Seconds stretch to minutes and into lifetimes.

When they have cooled and lie wrapped only in each other's arms he finally relays his understanding.

"You didn't sign the treaty."

"No." She sighs with a smile, relaxed into the crook of his arm. He feels her breath on his chest. "The Federation and Devore ambassadors couldn't see to reach an agreement."

He feels a broad smile cross his face. "I can't say I'm disappointed."

"Neither am I."

She extricates her fingers from his hair to twine them with his and he strokes the back of her hand with his thumb.

"Tonight was hard," he admits. "I wasn't sure. And I'm sorry now for not trusting you."

"I didn't exactly make it easy on you," she admits. "I know I shouldn't have shut you out. I just felt like I needed to deal with this on my own. It was my last piece of unfinished business."

Then, he remembers their true reason for being here. "But the treaty…"

"Will be finished by another Admiral."

Chakotay sighs. "You never expected to sign it, did you?"

"No. I mean, I hoped…. But no."

It's petty, this thing he's going to ask next, but he doesn't really care. "Did you tell him?"

"Yes," she says and her words are closure to his ears. "I told him that he didn't matter. He doesn't matter. He will never matter. That he was a means to an end, the product of a bad situation, and you are my life."

"And?"

"I don't want to think about him, or the things that led me to him, ever again."

If there was a conversation to be had, Chakotay realizes, they've just had it.

He moves on.

"Our lake is waiting, you know?" he says with a burgeoning smile.

"I've heard."

"What do you want to do first?"

"Hm. I was thinking about that at dinner…. I think we should have a picnic."

"Why is that?"

She grins deviously. "Because relaxing is such hungry work."

He lifts his head up slightly to look her in the eyes. "Hey now, I thought we weren't going to think about him again."

She tilts her head, slides her lips once again up the side of his neck and begins to nip.

"Trust me, I'm not."


End file.
